


Three Perspectives on the Birth of a Prince

by CerseiSassQueen



Series: The Stag King, the Rose Queen, and the She-Wolf [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Breastfeeding, Childbirth, Drabble, Fem!Jon Snow, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Happy Ending, Joanna Snow - Freeform, Making Babies, Mild Blood, OTP3, Pregnancy, Robert Lives, f!Jon Snow - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-06
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-11-12 14:42:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18012815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CerseiSassQueen/pseuds/CerseiSassQueen
Summary: The Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms is born during the eye of a storm, as befitting a trueborn son of his father's House.Oneshot drabble, established AU relationships;Robert/MargaeryRobert/fem!JonImplied Robert/Margaery/fem!Jon





	Three Perspectives on the Birth of a Prince

**Author's Note:**

> Set a little while after my previous work, 'A Stolen Season'.

** Three Perspectives on the Birth of a Prince **

**Margaery**

Her first child is born in the eye of a great storm, the sky dark and humid, the air crackling with fire, heavy black clouds on the distant horizon holding the promise of lightning. The storm has roiled since dawn, churning the Blackwater until indigo waves threaten to swallow the tiny ships bobbing upon the surface...but all is quiet and still in this moment, when she strains and huffs on all-fours with the last of her strength, pushing deep, her slender hands bunched into white-knuckled fists against the sweat-damp bed sheets.

Her body is raw and wet, aching with a throbbing heat, her entire life shrinking to this, to the stretch of her core as the child crowns. She hisses out a shrill whining moan from between gritted teeth, dipping her head against Joanna’s shoulder, taking comfort from her friend’s quiet strength. Finally, when the storm rolls over the Red Keep and the sky softens to a sharp pinkish hue, deceptive in its tranquility, the heir to the Iron Throne slips free from his mother’s womb in a rush of sticky bloodstained warmth, squeaking and wriggling like a newborn pup.

Margaery turns, limbs quivering as she settles upon the mattress and raises her arms for the babe; he is small but perfectly formed, sturdy and naked and pink, his soft skin slick with birthing fluids as Joanna gently places him upon her chest. He bellows with new lungs, roaring loud enough to shake the foundations of the known world...such a strange little creature, _her boy_ , his delicate fingers curling within her loose hair, his round red face lapsing into quiet bewilderment when he blinks up at her with hazy eyes. Blue eyes, misty and scrunched tight, barely open, but he seems to recognise his mother all the same. He lets out a mewling cry and snuffles at the swell of her breasts like a nursing kitten, the sounds petering away to noisy muffled grunts when she guides a milk-wet nipple into his questing mouth. The strength of his suckling lips around her peak takes her breath away, the pull at her breast reflected in the tight twinging spasms of her bereft womb, and she croons with delight, fulfilled in a way that she cannot hope to put into words.

Oh, she _adores_ him, loves him with all the innate ferocity of motherhood, stroking gently at the cap of ink-black curls cresting his tiny head and smiling up at her husband when she finally manages to tear her glittering brown gaze from the child at her breast…

“Your son, my king…”

 

* * *

 

**Robert**

_His son._

Oh, to think that he had once held the infant Mya Stone in his arms and felt like a god, a mighty immortal being with the power to create life, to sow his seed with reckless abandon and arrogance. Here and now, looking upon the squirming pink bundle that is his son, his boy, his heir, Robert knows without a shadow of doubt that he was a sadder fool than Moonboy in those heady days of youth, little more than a child himself when he held his firstborn bastard in his arms. He _knows_ it, and he is ashamed of the conceited fool he had been then, for now he understands - _truly_ understands - what it means to be a father, and he almost barks out a mirthless knell of laughter at such bitter irony. A man of his age, a man with more bastards than he can count, a man who had once thought himself the sire of three trueborn golden-haired children...but he had never understood what it meant to be a _father_ before now, growing and learning more in the space of five minutes than in thirty-five _fucking_ years.

There is no arrogance in him now, he feels no urge to raise his son aloft for all to see, to crow of his virality and the strength of his seed. He is no god. He is mortal, he is weak, a creature of flesh and blood...and he is _afraid_. Oh yes, he is afraid, the Demon of the Trident almost brought to his knees at the prospect of fatherhood, of the responsibility of raising a child in this cruel world...but it is a _good_ fear, a warm aching wound in his chest, in his heart, born of love and devotion and the terror of failure and loss. Love and devotion for this fresh-whelped mite, the babe sucking heartily at Margaery’s teat, and terror at the thought of failing him, as he had the others...of _losing_ him.

But he sucks it up, quells the fear and pushes it down, feeling a fierce surge of pride and joy rise in its stead. Perching upon the edge of the bed at his wife’s side, he smiles to see their child’s appetite, those tiny fists pawing against her breasts, wet rosebud lips mouthing at a milk-plump nipple. _Greedy little pup_ , he thinks, chuckling with fond amusement, brushing two thick fingers over the babe’s head, touching reverently at the black curly hair plastered slickly against that fragile skull. Joanna is combing her own slender fingers through Margaery’s hair with no less veneration, her long features softened by a smile, her face mirroring the king’s joy, “What is his name?”

They name him for Robert’s father, and there is a bittersweet sting of grief in the choice, with the storm raging again beyond the walls of the Red Keep, a storm as wild and merciless as that which had killed Lord Steffon Baratheon and his wife, the relentless waves claiming their ship as three soon-to-be orphaned boys watched from the safety of the shore. But there is no time to dwell on the pains of the past, and when Robert holds his son for the first time he swears to himself that he will allow no sorrow to live within him from this moment on…

Save one, perhaps. He cannot help but think of _her_ , when Joanna takes Steffon from his arms and coos down at the newborn princeling, looking so much like her aunt that he feels lightheaded, as though he has stared into the sun for too long. In a different world, she might have been Lyanna, cradling their son...but Lyanna is _dead_ , stolen from him, along with the promise of those unborn sons.

Joanna is _not_ Lyanna (although he loves her all the same, his sweet sharp-tongued Jo) and the boy-child dozing within the crook of her elbow belongs as much to Margaery as to Robert himself. Moreso, perhaps, for she had grown the babe in her womb and brought him into the world. The pert snub nose is more rose than stag, and those shapely pink lips too, and Robert would not have it any other way. He reaches for Margaery’s hand now, pressing a warm kiss against her dainty fingers, pouring his affection and gratitude into the gesture as she beams at him from the bed. She is his wife, his queen, mother to his son, as lovely and full of promise as a dream of spring, and the ghosts of the past cannot supplant her place in his heart.

 

* * *

 

**Joanna**

She had not expected to feel so much, to feel such instinctive love for this babe, but her heart is full to bursting when the squirming red-tinged body slides from betwixt Margaery’s pale thighs in a gush of bloody liquid, his soft weight dropping into her waiting hands. Cradling his head with practised ease, the memory of holding her younger siblings in their infancy flooding back with bittersweet clarity as she cups her fingers beneath the nape of his neck. She remembers the thin-lipped displeasure on Lady Stark’s face when her lord-father had allowed her to partake in that joy, to hold her little brothers and sisters as though she had as much a right to them as Robb. Against her better judgement, she fears seeing that same mingled distrust and spiteful jealousy on Margaery’s sweet face... _but no_...there is only warmth there, and Joanna’s wolf-heart sings, soars, greedy for acceptance and affection.

She gives the child over to his mother, smiling with as much pride as if she had birthed him from her own womb as she watches him latch on to the proffered nipple with lusty enthusiasm. His strong legs kick in muted pleasure, his downy head nestled against Margaery’s breast, and Joanna shares a tender smile with the queen from across the babe’s shock of dark hair. Oh, Margaery has never looked so beautiful as in this moment, her curls rumpled beyond saving, her doe-eyes underscored with purplish bruises of exhaustion, her lips chewed raw and the creamy pearl-glow of her skin beaded with a damp sheen of sweat. Joanna is proud of her, proud of them both, mother and child, and she is passing proud of Robert too, her chest swelling with pure joy to see the almost-boyish elation brightening his wine-ruined features when he looks upon his wife and son. He had not fled the birthing chamber for the kingswood this time, as he had when Cersei whelped her golden bastards, preferring to draw blood from a boar or a hart with his blade than see his lady wife’s blood as she laboured to bring forth their child, crimson against white sheets and white skin. This time, he stayed to see his child born, and she is _proud_ of him for it.

“Would you like to hold him, Jo?”

Again, she is touched beyond measure when Margaery carefully eases Steffon into her arms, the flicker of concern she feels for the wincing queen soon snuffed out at the warm softness of the babe tucked within the gentle cradle of her elbow. Oh, he is _perfect_ , truly. A tiny new life, one whole made from the halves of two people she loves so dearly, with his royal father’s colouring, the distinctive Baratheon blue eyes and black hair, and Margaery’s pretty features already visible beneath the pink puppy-fat of his cheeks. Drawing a gentle fingertip over his skin, she coos in a voice that she barely recognises as her own, a tone she keeps for flighty horses and her goshawk, for Arya and Bran, for Rickon and Ghost. Soft and tender, the hint of a honey-warm lullaby humming in the rough edges of her wolfish northern growl. Aye, she is a wolf, and this is her pack, the family she has chosen for her own, claimed and guarded as closely as her blood-kin. She will keep them, she will fight for them, come what may. The little princeling dozing in her arms, heavy-lidded and glutted on milk, is as precious to her as if she had carried him within her own body, and swears a silent vow to the old gods, the gods of her father and the First Men, to protect him from the evils of the world with her last breath, with her _life_ , if need be.

_When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives..._

Later, when Prince Steffon is presented to the Hand of the King and the Small Council, a row of smiling male faces thronged at the foot of the birthing bed, Joanna is pleased to see Ned Stark’s grim features break into a smile of genuine warmth and delight, as joyous at the arrival of Robert’s son and heir as he had been when his own children were born. The king and his queen are congratulated, the chamber echoing with good grace and the blessings of the Seven, and Joanna gently plucks the swaddled infant from his cradle at Margaery’s behest, carrying him from one lord to the next to receive their approval. Smiling as Renly tweaks at his nephew’s cheek, she does not see the pain in her father’s grey eyes, the fleeting shadow of wistful sadness in his face as he watches her with the babe. It is well that she does not, for she could not understand the truth, the spectre of blue roses and bloody sheets in his gaze, and she wants none of it, not when she has light and laughter in her life and the bloom of youthful love in her heart.

 

 


End file.
